


just think of the fun things we could do

by peterpan_in_neverland



Series: lyrically inclined [4]
Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: 16 days! for so few words, Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Angst, Modern AU, Oral Sex, anyway, anywhoozles, based on the song Delicate by Taylor Swift, bro................., friends w benefits fic, i am a disgrace and a nightmare, maybe one day ill write a fic in the canon era, part of the lyrically inclined series, so much happens in this fic, this took way too many days to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterpan_in_neverland/pseuds/peterpan_in_neverland
Summary: He pushes himself to the bar and leans against it, heavy, forearms falling against the lacquer. “You’ve been gone for a year and a half,” Gilbert says, fingers dancing in the air. “Where were you this time?”“Where do you think I was?” Anne asks, question dodging, and sips her drink through the stir straw, pink lipgloss staying behind. She must be wearing foundation, or something, because he has to concentrate to make out the outlines of her freckles.She is too pale for California or Australia, this time, and he hums behind his teeth. “Ireland?”“Here.”He chokes, eyebrows hitting shaggy curls. “How have I missed you?”“Perhaps I am easy to overlook,” she says, a smile tilting up the corners of her mouth, cheekbones glowing electric pink.“You, easy to overlook? Never.”--OR; Anne reappears in Gilberts life
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe & Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley
Series: lyrically inclined [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909363
Comments: 4
Kudos: 82





	just think of the fun things we could do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnetichearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnetichearts/gifts), [cori_the_bloody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/gifts).



> Hi! Wow, I am posting a non-Halloween fic on Halloween... how pretentious I am. Anyway, I haven't written for AWAE in SO long, I am... a mess. However, I hope you enjoy, and if you do, please leave kudos and a comment. Thank you! 
> 
> Oh! And thank you to dear, sweet Cori for proofreading and editing, and Bhargavi for putting up with me while I complained about writing, and a general, blanket thank-you-for-being-amazing-and-wonderful to Leila and Maggie. I love you all.

Neon lights are bouncing off her skin and shooting through her cocktail glass, and glowing bright along the rim. She is wearing a gold slip that reflects the lights like a mirror and hugs her body like a second skin. It makes his pulse beat faster.

She has cut her hair to her jawline and tattooed a willow branch along the outside of her wrist, dancing up her arm, and Gilbert thinks, just a little bit, that he can see a thin gold hoop glinting light along the contour of her left nostril.

He keeps expecting her to disappear, like a ghost, a mirage, like the protagonist at the end of every great American novel. She will vanish into mist, evaporate like smoke between his fingers, and he will be the only one left to blame.

He pushes himself to the bar and leans against it, heavy, forearms falling against the lacquer. “You’ve been gone for a year and a half,” Gilbert says, fingers dancing in the air. “Where were you this time?”

“Where do you think I was?” Anne asks, question dodging, and sips her drink through the stir straw, pink lipgloss staying behind. She must be wearing foundation, or something, because he has to concentrate to make out the outlines of her freckles. 

She is too pale for California or Australia, this time, and he hums behind his teeth. “Ireland?” 

“Here.” 

He chokes, eyebrows hitting shaggy curls. “How have I missed you?” 

“Perhaps I am easy to overlook,” she says, a smile tilting up the corners of her mouth, cheekbones glowing electric pink. 

“You, easy to overlook? Never.” 

“Then how did you miss me?” she asks, one eyebrow raised up, and Gilbert chuckles. “I mean, if I’m difficult to overlook.” 

“You were probably avoiding me,” he says, statement of fact, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Would I ever do that?” Gilbert almost expects her to bat her eyelashes, or stick out her bottom lip, pouting. 

This is repetitive. Circulatory. A charted course. “You and I both know,” he says, measured, and pushes a strand of her hair behind her ear, “that you would, and have, and will continue to do so.” 

“And we also know that you’ll let me,” she says, bright green lights flashing off her lip gloss and making her look translucent, see through, opalescent. She looks like the cover of a fantasy novel, glowing skin and eyes and lips.

**“This isn’t for the best,”** he whispers, cupping her cheeks. Her highlight comes off on his thumb, and he leans down, kissing the exposed freckles.

“I know,” she says back, pushing herself onto her toes— it is performative; she is wearing velvety black stilettos that make her eyes stand parallel with his— and kisses him, her hands flat in his back pockets, body curving into his like a parenthesis, and he sighs into her mouth, pushing strands of hair away from her face. 

“You know,” she whispers, lips brushing his, rum and Coke lingering on her tongue, **“my reputation has never been worse.”**

He laughs in spite of himself, deep from his chest, and kisses her again, pressing a smile to her lips. **“So?** It hasn’t ever been good, has it?” 

“Not since I hit you in the face with my English textbook,” she says, and smirks, sharpening the angles in her face. She tangles a hand into his hair and tugs, and he groans out, eyes slipping shut. “Still like that, huh?” 

_“Fuck,_ Anne.” 

“Your place?” she asks, like there is even a question, like they would ever go to hers. Anne exists in vagueness, and if she has a home outside of Green Gables, she has never mentioned it, and has never taken him there. He does not think it is a possibility that she ever will. 

“I'm not getting a hotel room.” 

She ignores it— ignores him— and presses her mouth to his, one more time, before she tugs him from the bar.

* * *

“Mmm, this is new,” she hums, pushing her body into his, but the shake in her voice gives away the nerves hiding below her cool tone. He was not expecting her to comment on it— him pinning her wrists above her head, a nonverbal way of saying _you cannot touch me, but I can touch you—_ and her breath hitches when he bites down on her bottom lip, tugging on it. “You-You get a new schtick while I was gone? Take classes for it, or something?” 

“No,” he answers, and nudges her jaw up, teeth scraping against her skin before he finds the spot that makes her pulse stutter, and nips at it, determined to leave a mark. “I just know what I want.” 

“Mhm, and what exactly is that, sir decisive, the God of making up his— oh, _fuck,”_ she moans, and digs her newly freed hands into his hair. 

He had been unceremonious about it, dropping to his knees— they had hit the hardwood and sent a shock up his thighs— but Anne did not seem to notice and he does not care, not when he tugs her underwear down and licks over her clit and her legs shake. 

“Do you think you can stand up the whole time?” he asks, lips brushing against her. She whimpers, high in her throat, and grinds her hips down. “Anne.”

“Probably not,” she answers, and groans when he swirls his tongue against her, “fuck, what was-was the point of asking if you’re just gonna keep _going?”_

“Wanted to know if I would have to catch you,” he answers, and locks his hands around her hips, pushing her against the door and holding her skirt up, out of his eyes. He licks into her, rubbing along the ridges inside of her, and savouring the breathy moans she lets out. 

“How are you liking Toronto?” he asks, pulling away from her, to pull in a shaky breath, and she groans, exasperated. He likes it, likes making her talk, seeing how long she can pull sentences together as he goes down on her. 

**“You must like me for me,** if you want to keep me talking during sex,” she says, shaky, gasping when he nips at the negative space of her thighs. 

“Mhm,” he hums, pressing his lips against her, so she feels it, and she jerks, “tell me what you like about Toronto, Anne.” 

“F-Fuck, okay, just keep going,” she says, and he obliges, licking her clit, “its rainy, and-and kinda boring, but I like— fuck, right _there,_ more.” 

“Keep talking.” 

“Give me more, and I will,” she groans, tugging at his hair. 

“It appears we’re at an impasse,” he says, but licks into her anyway, relishing in the way her thighs lock around his ears. 

“The neighbour at my Airbnb has a dog that keeps trying to-to break out of her a-apartment and— fuck, Gilbert, fuck, fuck, fuck,” she swears, taking a shuddering breath and jerking as she comes, moaning his name and tugging his hair, hard. “Fuck,” she says, again, coming down from her high and staring at him as he straightens up, tugging her dress down, “I would be mad about you being so _good_ at that if you weren’t doing it to me.” 

“I like it,” he admits, and helps her step out of her dress, picking it up from the ground and folding it quickly, tossing it over the back of a chair in the dining room. 

“Gentlemanly,” she remarks, and rips his shirt open, buttons and matching sighs bouncing off the walls. 

“Unladylike,” he shoots back, just to see her roll her eyes, before she stumbles into him for a kiss. She walks shaky after she has come, like her muscles have been disconnected from her brain, and it makes shoots of pride blossom in his chest.

She breaks the kiss and he takes the opportunity to lift her up, hands around her thighs, letting her legs lock around his waist before he carries her to his bedroom. 

“I missed you,” she says, into his neck, before kissing the whisper warmed skin. 

“I would ask you to stay,” he says, setting her down on his bed and brushing his lips against hers, **“but you can’t make any promises, can you, babe?”**

“Babe?” she repeats, skirting the question, and fumbling with his belt— it is the first time she has been anything but smooth, clean motions disrupted, and he revels in it. 

“You’re avoiding the question,” he points out, tugging the drawer of his nightstand open and grabbing a condom, fingernails scraping the plywood at the bottom of the drawer. 

She takes the condom out of his hand and tucks it into her bra. “It isn’t an interrogation— I don’t have to answer,” she says, and pulls his pants and boxers down in one smooth movement, wrapping her hand around him and pumping; his hips stutter. 

“Anne, come on,” he says, mind spinning, “don’t tease.” 

She laughs softly, and tears the condom open, rolling it on and letting him push her backwards, gently, hands around her thighs. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” He always asks, always, and he hopes that she realizes he means it. 

_“Yes,”_ she says, wrapping her legs around his waist, and pushing her hair back from her face, “please.” 

He thrusts into her, enjoying the gasping moan she lets out, and tries to hold onto the moment before it’s gone.

* * *

_**dive bar on the east side,**_ she texts him, in the middle of the night, **phone lighting up his nightstand in the black** of his room, and he groans before picking it up. 

_What?_ he texts, scrubbing a hand over his face and checking the time. two twenty four in the morning. Jesus. 

_**where you at?**_ she adds, rather unhelpfully. 

_It’s post one AM, Anne, I don’t have the energy or the ability to sleep with you right now._ he tells her, and laughs at himself, dropping his phone on his chest.

It buzzes again, and he groans, picking it up.

_just come here,_ she says, then, _you can meet me in the back._

_I’m not sleeping with you, Anne._

_not asking you to._

He groans again, exasperated, and throws back his blanket, rolling off the bed and pulling his jeans on.

He grabs his keys off the kitchen counter, and leaves his apartment, leaving his regrets in his stead. 

* * *

“Anne, what are you doing?” he asks, watching her lean against the brick wall outside of the dive bar. It’s grimy, exactly what you’d expect for the back entrance of a bar— broken bottles and bags of trash splitting open, graffiti stains and much worse chasing up the walls— and Anne is smoking a cigarette. “Since when did you smoke?” 

“I don’t,” she says, exhales smoke, and looks at him dangerously, **“dark jeans _and_ your Nikes, look at you.” **

“Then what are you holding and taking drags off of?” he asks, exasperated and ignoring her remark, and when she does not answer, he reaches forward, taking the cigarette from between her fingers and crushing it under his shoe. 

“Why’d you do that?” 

“You don’t need to be addicted to disappearing _and_ Nicotine, Anne,” Gilbert says, and looks her over. She does not have one of her glamorous, sparkling dresses on, just a sheer top and jeans, and he smiles in spite of himself. “Why’d you text me?” 

“Need a place to crash,” she says, simply, and Gilbert realizes that she is answering all of his questions in incomplete sentences. He does not push it, because pushing it is too out of character, too outside of their circular, patterned relationship— Anne has already pushed it with her texts.

“Why didn’t you call Diana?” 

“They’re in the Hamptons.” 

“The Hamptons?” Gilbert repeats, disbelief colouring his tone. The Barry’s never seemed like Hamptons people to him, but he had never really gotten to know Diana or her parents 

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t get why you can’t call anyone else,” he says, and she frowns, dramatic. Her bottom lip sticks out, pouting, and she wants to catch it in a kiss. Normally, he would take her home. He would prep coffee for the morning and make a bed for himself on the couch, would give her extra clothes to wear and two aspirin for the inevitable hangover to come.

But he is tired.

Tired of the circular movement, vanishing and reappearing, kissing and marking skin and sleeping together. Vanishing again. Having Anne in his life is remarkable. It is golden and glittering and made up of daydreams, but it cannot carry on this way. 

“Because no one else wants me around.” 

“You could always go home, to Marilla—” 

“We’re in a fight,” Anne interrupts, cheeks pink, and Gilbert back pedals. The last fight Gilbert can remember Anne and Marilla having was just past Anne’s sixteenth birthday, can remember overhearing her recounting the fight to Diana, tear stained cheeks and loose braids, and Anne choking out **did she ever really care about me?**

“Oh,” he says, and nods. Grinds the cigarette down harder. Swallows his pride and raises his eyes back to hers. “Okay. You can stay at my place.” 

* * *

“You’re so nice to me,” Anne says, tossing her shoes into the pile by his door, and collapsing languidly onto his couch. It is a little unbelievable, watching her as she oh so casually exists in his home, relaxing on his couch, all parabolic curves, and he sighs.

“You can take the bed,” he tells her, already resigning himself to the pathetic excuse for a pullout bed that the couch folds into, and steps backwards into the kitchen, cleaning out the coffee pot.

“Only if you take it with me,” she negotiates, and tugs a throw blanket— Mary made it, loose stitching and ocean blue yarn— from the back of the couch, tossing it over her shoulders and closing her eyes.

“Anne, come on, you’re still wearing your jeans.”

“So are you,” she says, without opening her eyes, or moving. The streetlights glaring through the window cast darkness underneath of her cheekbones, and it makes her look drawn out. Weary. Tim Burton-esque.

“Will you go to bed if I stay with you?” he asks, and scrubs his palms over his thighs, tapping his fingers, before setting the coffee pot back in its place.

She opens one eye, and looks at him, half of her face scrunched up. “Okay. But, I’m taking this blanket with me. It smells like Mary.” 

“Does it?” he asks, and resists the urge to snatch it away from her and bury his face in it, hiding from the world and breathing in the scent of home. Mary became his safety, the only person with whom he could share anything, the moment she had married Bash, and he has become homesick for her and the farm, for Delphines short curls of hair, for the pleasing lilt of Bash’s voice.

“Yeah,” Anne says, and stands up, pulling the blanket around her shoulder like a cape, and it makes her look pathetically small, “like pancakes. And unconditional love.” 

Gilbert chuckles, and thinks about writing a letter to her, wax seal included. “That is Mary, isn't it?”

“Yep.”

“You should go to bed, Anne,” he says, and squeezes the back of his neck, “you know where it is. You can borrow some of my clothes to sleep in, if you want.”

“Come with me,” she says, holding her hand out between the edges of the blanket, and letting her head lull forward, cheek resting on the blanket. 

“Why?” he asks, but takes her hand anyway.

**“‘Cause I like you,”** she answers, and leans into him, her forehead pressing against the collision of his collarbones. 

“Anne,” he whispers, and smooths a hand up her back, feeling her vertebrae brush against his palm, and stops between her shoulder blades. She sighs, and she melts into him like her bones have been liquefied. 

“I’m tired, Gil,” she says, and he knows she does not just mean physically, and wraps her arms around his neck, hands hanging loose and brushing the wings of his shoulders. The blanket crumples to the floor sadly. 

**“This isn't for the best,** not for either of us,” Gilbert says, but drops his hands to her thighs, feeling the muscle relax, and lifts her up, 

**“You must like me for me,** huh?” Anne asks, into his neck, as he kicks the blanket to the side, making a silent promise to Mary and himself that he will come back for it. 

**“I can’t make any promises,”** he says, joking, but Anne lifts her head anyway, looking him in the eye before exhaustion catches up to her, and she presses her face back into his neck. 

“Why do you say that?” she asks, like it hurts. She thumbs at his tag. 

“Trying to be… casual.” He pushes open his bedroom door and sets her on his bed, disentangling her legs from his hipbones and back, her eyes closed daintily. 

_“Casual._ Always hated how that sounds,” she says, sitting up, and unbuttoning her jeans, shrugging, “now here I am, doing it.” 

“Are we really casual?” he asks, lacking malice by design, and pulls an old t-shirt— a musical, something from his childhood, before his dad had died— from the bottom of his dresser, and tosses it to her. “You haven’t even told Diana, yeah?”

“Have you told Bash?”

“Have you told Ruby?” 

“Charlie?” 

_“Cole?”_ he asks, with a devious smirk, already knowing the answer. “I know you have.”

She flushes red. “Mind reading is considered rude,” Anne says, tossing her jeans and blouse in one of the corners of his room, and unfolding the shirt, “especially in this day and age.”

“What did he have to say?” Gilbert kicks his jeans off, and tugs on the sweatpants he had abandoned when he left to pick up Anne. They had long ago lost any lingering heat from his body, but they are much more comforting than his jeans. 

“He kind of coerced it out of me,” Anne admits, and pulls his blanket up around herself. His blanket is dark purple, the colour of grape juice, and it makes Anne's skin look like the surface of the moon, bright and luminescent. 

“Is that so?” he asks, and lets himself fall into the mattress softly, pulling the edge of the blanket over himself, until he can feel warmth lock over his side. 

“Cole can swindle,” Anne says, by way of explanation, and turns over, grabbing his hand and resting her cheek in the palm of it. His knuckles sink into the pillow. “Like a pirate. Or a frugal grandmother at a farmers market.” 

“Or Mrs Lynde,” Gilbert adds, and Anne hums in agreement. He uses his free hand to trace the line of her jaw and tuck loose hair behind her ear. “What did Cole have to say about me?” 

“That he hopes you’re doing well in college and staying healthy and well fed,” Anne answers, and he can feel the bones and muscles in her face move and stretch against his palm as she talks. Gilbert cannot tell if she is joking.

“What else?” he asks, discovering, unpleasantly, that he does not want to know if she was kidding or not. The idea of someone other than Mary and Bash worrying over his well being feels oddly like comfort. 

“He doesn’t want me to be dumb with you,” Anne answers, and abandons his palm to hide her face in his neck, nose brushing his pulse point, “he’s protective— like a Rottweiler, but nicer, not that Rottweilers aren’t nice— he’s just guardian-esque.” 

His heartbeat stutters, and he wonders if it is beating from the palm of her hand. “Do you think you’re being dumb with me?” 

“No,” she says, and presses a kiss to his neck and— there isn’t any heat, any indication of wanting more, just tenderness and comfort and warmth— and sighs. "Not if doing what I want is dumb.” 

He lets himself pull her further up, onto his chest, and the top of her head brushes his chin. “It’s not.” 

“Good,” she answers, and combs her fingers through his hair. She gives up halfway through, letting her hand hang limply in the curls, fingers locked inside of them. He could not make himself move her, even if he wanted to. 

“I hope you keep doing it.” 

“If I’m not a coward,” she whispers, and kisses his jaw, tenderness echoed, “I will.” 

#

Anne has had two cups of coffee— more milk than anything, really, so much that the brown tint almost disappears entirely— and washed her hair in his bathroom sink before she finally says, “thanks.”

Gilbert falters, jerking, like his train of thought has stalled, and he sets the bowl he had been washing in the sink on the kitchen counter. She is sitting on his couch, her knees pulled up to her chest and her coffee mug resting on top of them, between her hands. She is still wearing his clothes, and her hair is tied up into a knot on the top of her head. She looks like she belongs there.

“For?” he says deliberately, carefully, like there are defensive measures that need to be taken.

“Giving up your Saturday morning and half of your bed for me,” she answers, and sips from her coffee mug, tapping her fingers against the handle.

“I’d give my whole Saturday to you,” he says, and she blinks, twice, like she is recollecting herself, stitching her pieces back together. He rubs pruny hands against his sweatpants. “So… yeah.”

**“Is it cool that I said all that?”** Anne asks, rushed, like all the breath is blowing out of her. She taps her feet, methodically, against the couch cushions, then sets her coffee mug to the side to hide her face in her hands. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t.”

“Why wouldn't it be?” he asks, before he can stop himself. She peeks her eyes up over the tips of her fingers.

**“‘Cause I know that it’s delicate,”** she answers, and then furrows her brow, **“isn’t it?”**

He opens and closes his mouth dumbly, like he has forgotten all the words he has ever learned. “No,” he finally says, even though that is not exactly correct, “I mean, it’s not like we have a really… stable, or defined relationship but I don’t— I wouldn’t call it _delicate.”_

“What _would_ you call it, then?” she asks, dropping her feet back to the floor and straightening her spine— faux confidence, he knows that stature. She sets her jaw.

“I’d call it undefined,” he says, simply, and hopes that it sounds comforting. Anne spooks easy, startling and running away— the last time something went wrong between them, she had disappeared to America. She has been running to and from him ever since he had pulled her hair, the aftermath of which included her skipping three weeks of school. 

“Undefined?” she echoes, like a question, and chews on the corner of her lip.

“Like… without definition,” he says, and then feels dumb, “I feel like we just aren’t putting labels on anything. And that maybe, it’s better that way.” 

Something flickers across her face, and Gilbert cannot name it, and he remembers, all at once, that Anne spent thirteen years hiding herself in ways he did not even know were possible before he met her. “Okay,” she says, and nods, picking her coffee cup up again, “okay.” 

He blushes bright red, and cannot figure out why. “Are we okay?” he asks, watching as she stands up and walks past him to the sink, emptying what’s left of her coffee down the drain. “Are _you_ okay?”

“Yeah,” she answers, her voice light— too light, fake light, almost weightless, helium filled and floating, and Gilbert knows it is a defense mechanism, but he gets angry anyway. 

“Please be honest with me.” He curls his hands into poorly-formed fists, digging his nails into his skin.

“Whatever works for you works for me,” she answers, and turns to face him, cool indifference. 

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“But it’s my answer.”

“Anne, come on,” he pleads, letting his face drop into a frown, “just, please, tell me what you want.” 

“I already did,” she answers, and scoffs, rolling her eyes— at him or herself, Gilbert does not know— and turns around, picking up a plate and scrubbing at it with a soapy sponge. “I’m seriously fine with whatever, I mean, you're, like— **you’re a mansion with a view.** I should be happy with what I get—”

“— Anne—”

“— and last night was a **long night,** and I fell asleep **with your hands up in my hair,** I mean, I really should be grateful for that—”

_“Anne!”_ he shouts, letting his temper and her overwhelm get the best of him, and it shows, because Anne whirls around, dropping the plate on the floor, where it promptly shatters.

“Goddammit,” she whispers, and bends down, picking up the ceramic shards with soapy hands, “I’m sorry, Gilbert, seriously, I’m so fucking clumsy, I just— I’m _sorry.”_

“Dont pick those up with your bare hands, Anne, are you insane?” Gilbert asks, before he can stop himself, and swats her hands away. “What if you hurt yourself?”

“It’s not glass, I’ll be okay,” she argues, and he huffs, grabbing a towel from the counter and tossing it over the shards. _“Gilbert.”_

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he says, and stands up straight, looking at her as she stares at the checkered towel, “let me get a broom, okay?” 

“I can do it,” she says, standing up and staring him in the eye, like she is presenting him with a challenge. 

He folds. “I will get the broom and hold the dustpan while you sweep,” he offers, and she sticks out her bottom lip in an adorable pout that he wants to kiss, “that’s my only and final offer, so you’ll have to be happy with it.”

“Fine,” she grits out, between her teeth, and folds her arms over her chest.

He sighs, and grabs the broom from the closet, pulling it away from the dustpan and passing it to Anne.

“It took a lot of willpower not to clean this up while you were gone,” she admits, sweeping the shards into the dustpan. 

“I was gone a max of fifteen seconds.” 

“My record is eleven,” she says, and helps him up from the ground when she finishes sweeping, smiling at him crookedly. 

“Hey,” he whispers, and smooths a hand over her hair, the heel of his palm brushing her cheekbone. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want to throw the plate wreckage away in the garbage,” she answers, tone low and seductive, and he laughs. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he says back, cupping her jaw, just to feel the bone structure press into his palms, “and you know it.” 

“Tell me what you want first.” 

“I asked first.”

“I’m older.”

“I talked to you first.” 

“I touched you first.”

“I _kissed_ you first,” Anne says, and Gilbert tilts his head. Anne smirks, and swipes her thumb over his bottom lip, pressing her body flush against his. “Gotcha.”

**“Stay here,”** he says, and kisses her jaw, indulging himself, **“I don’t wanna share** you with anyone.”

“Yeah?” she asks, smiling, fingers dancing over his chin.

“Yeah. **‘Cause I like you,”** he says, and kisses her, lingering and warm and heady, “go out with me. On a date,” he says, surprising himself, once they have broken apart. 

“I’m not a cheap date,” she says, even though he knows she is lying— she would be happy with a drive thru meal and a bad movie.

And he would be happy, as long as he was with her. 

The thought does not startle him, not really, because he has always known it. Wanting Anne is easy. It is telling her that is hard.

“We can go tonight,” he whispers, tucking her hair behind her ear and kissing her cheek, indulging in her. Indulging in the blush on her cheekbones and the faint, curlycue smile on her lips. 

“You’ll have to let me go home and change,” she says, breathy, when his lips skate down her neck. 

“I’d be fine with you wearing my clothes.”

“I’m not going to wear your sweats on a date, Gilbert,” she says, and gasps when he bites at her shoulder. “F-Fine, two can play,” she adds, and tugs on his hair, hard. 

“Anne, what the fuck?” he says, groaning, but giving in anyway. She kisses his Adam’s apple.

“I told you,” she says, tugging his shirt off and dropping to her knees, “I can play your game, too.”

She smirks, and pulls down his sweatpants, and any lingering argument dies in his throat. 

#

“So,” Anne says, scuffing her shoe against the tile and smiling up at him, “you knew I was lying when I said I’m not a cheap date, huh?” 

“Oh, completely,” he answers, bumping her with his shoulder and leaning back against the wall. McDonalds probably is not the best choice of first date locale, but he _knows_ her. 

“I’m kind of glad you called my bluff,” she says, and walks to the register to order, “I really didn’t want to have to put on pantyhose.”

“You wouldn’t wear pantyhose for me?” he asks, putting his hand over his chest and feigning heartbreak. 

“Nope,” Anne answers, resounding, and ignores him to order, smiling brightly at the cashier and pulling out her wallet to pay before Gilbert has the chance.

“I’ll pay you back,” he says, on the way to an empty table, holding a bright red tray with their food on it, “I mean, I asked you out, it’s customary for the asker to pay for the askee.” 

“You absolutely will not pay me back and… I don’t care.” She sits down, and grabs the flimsy, grease stained paper bag with her hamburger and fries in it, and sets them on the table. 

He drums his fingers against the table and laughs at himself, watching Anne chew on a French fry suspiciously. “Why the giggles?” she asks.

“I just realized I don’t really know how to date you,” he answers, and she furrows her brows, looking at him suspiciously.

“What?” she asks, drawing out the _a,_ tone low. 

“I want to, don’t get me wrong,” he says, and Anne nods, stealing one of his French fries, “Anne, you have your own.” 

“Yours taste better,” she explains, and takes another one, “keep talking— you have to get yourself back into my good graces.”

“I want to date you, but I don’t know what dating you looks like.” He scrubs at the back of his neck, and tries to ignore the judgmental smirk on Anne's face.

“First of all, you never know what dating anyone will look like until you do it,” she says, and then dips a fry in ketchup, and wipes it over his cheek, “second, it looks something like that.” 

“You play dirty, Shirley-Cuthbert,” he says, swiping the ketchup off of his cheek with his finger, before smearing it down her nose. 

She laughs, hard, and sticks her tongue out, touching it to the tip of her nose. “How many more times do you think we can do that before the cashier notices and bursts into tears?” Anne asks, conspiratorial, one of her eyebrows raised. 

He smirks, and rips open a ketchup packet. “Wanna find out?” 

#

“That cashier _hated_ us,” Anne says, laughing and clinging onto his arm as they walk up the stairs to his apartment, “like, legitimate despisement.” 

“Is that even a word?” 

“It is now,” she says, and stops when they reach his floor, pulling him down for a kiss, “I had a good time.” 

“Do you want to keep having a good time?” he asks, dropping his arms around her waist and slipping his hands into her back pockets. 

“That’s bold,” she says, and kisses his chest, over his shirt, like she is trying to measure his heartbeat with her lips, “inviting me in on the first date.” 

“You started your day in my apartment, Anne,” he reminds her, chuckling, “you were literally wearing _my_ clothes.” 

“Different circumstances.” 

“Do you want to come in or not,” he asks, dipping his head down to kiss her neck, “because **I want you—** both to come in and, like, y’know.” 

She laughs, and tugs at the breast pocket of his shirt. “Yeah, okay.”

#

He is woken up by Anne’s lips on his back. 

It startles him awake, and he turns to face her, lashes fluttering. “Hey,” he says, grogginess in his throat, “what’re you doing?” 

“Kissing your freckles,” she answers, and he chuckles, pushing her hair back and kissing her— he misses her lips by a few centimeters, kissing her chin instead, and she giggles, high in her throat. “Little off, there, babe.”

_Babe_ is one of Gilbert’s favorite parts about dating Anne. She first started calling him that a month into their relationship, and it has lasted through the seasons, as autumn bled into winter, and it makes his chest feel warm. 

“Don’t care, still counts,” he says back, and lets his head fall back against his pillow. 

**“Sometimes, I wonder when you’re sleeping if you’re ever dreaming of me,”** she says, and traces a pattern over his chest, ducking her head. Gilbert knows it means that she is blushing, and wants to hide it. 

“If you’re asking,” he says, and smooths a hand down her back, “then the answer is yes.”

She looks up at him jerkily, and almost headbutts him in the chin. “Really?” she asks, breaking out in a wide grin.

“Yeah,” he answers, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, “I wouldn’t lie to you.” 

“You wouldn’t?”

“Yeah, **‘cause I like you.”**

“I love you,” she blurts, and then covers her mouth with her hand. Gilbert smiles, then laughs, blushing over his entire body. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whines, sticking out her bottom lip. 

“No, I’m not— I love you too, Anne,” he says, and she pouts even harder, “I do, I-I love you. I'm in love with you.”

“For real?” she asks, dubious. 

“I love you— it’s always been you,” he whispers, and watching Anne’s face split into a grin is all he needs to die happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a kudos if you did and a comment if you really did, they make my cat respect me. Thanks again!


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